He sits on the sofa, his son cradled in his arms, giggling at the tufts of smoke erupting from his wand, trying to catch it in his little hands.

"James, it's Harry's bed time," Lily said, entering the room. Behind a curtain of red hair, he could see the sleepiness in her eyes -and the anxiety, and the terror, and the love. "I'll take him to his crib."

Smiling, he scooped Harry up, handing him to her. Suddenly tired himself, he stretches and yawns, tossing his wand on the sofa that was occupied by Harry moments ago.

Harry. Their own son- their baby. How the hell did they end up like this- hiding? One second he was shocked (but euphoric) about his wife's pregnancy-and the next, the Longbottoms were tortured by Padfoot's demented cousin, and they're forced to go into hiding, and then being begged by Padfoot to switch their secret keeper to Wormtail seemingly one second later.

How did they end up with this fate? They were supposed to be happy and carefree, not worrying about the life of their one year-old son-

Crash.

Alarmed, James ran into the hallway-

Shit.

No. No no no no no no no.

Where the hell is his wand? Where the fuck is his wand oh my God what the hell is he going to do without his goddamn wand?

Lily and Harry. He needs to keep him away from Lily and Harry. He needs to buy them time- he's wandless oh Merlin he's wandless and his wife and baby are upstairs and there's a fucking killer in his house.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

He can almost hear Lily shuffling upstairs. He can almost see Harry- his baby, his spitting image- bobbing on her hip as she rapidly climbs the stairs, tears on the brim of his small, one-year-old eyes from the sudden change of atmosphere- his mother's eyes, his beautiful mother's magnetic eyes- and all James can think is that this shouldn't be happening.

But there he is- Voldemort. He doesn't seem as menacing as he did previously. In fact, he looks almost like a child who discovered he's finally tall enough to reach the cookie jar by himself.

Of course, the thought of a tiny boy mischievously reaching for sweets reminds him of Harry, and the lopsided smirk that's almost on his lips slips off before he could even wear it.

Seeing James' slightly defeated eyes, he slowly lifts his wand, manically grinning, and James thinks he looks almost comical.

For a moment, James straightens his posture- he knows he's about to die. He doesn't mind, really. In fact, he's almost glad.

Not about dying, of course.

But because he was first- he was before Lily. He wasn't the one upstairs, dreading the words Avada Kedavra to echo through the house, followed by the thump of a body that could no longer stand, the soul of the one he loved absent from it.

Maybe he was selfish, and maybe he wasn't as brave as he thought, but he didn't give a damn, because no one would find out, anyway. He did what he could to give them time, to make sure that they were safe, to make sure that they would see the beautiful sunrise, and that Harry could experience Lily's favorite month- November- for the second time in his entire one-year long life.

And for a brief second he closes his eyes before he knows he will drop like the plush quidditch chaser doll Harry dropped when he got tired of it.

And he finds that he doesn't regret much in his 21 years. Not one of the 57 detentions he served, or trips to the broom closet with Lily. He didn't regret how he married Lily so young, how he fell in love with her at 17. He didn't regret hearing Harry's first laugh, or changing Harry's diapers everyday, or the injuries he'd gotten from every full moon night since he was 15. He didn't regret sharing his house with Padfoot- his brother. He didn't even regret becoming friends with Wormtail- in fact, by now, he's forgiven little cowardly Peter Pettigrew.

But he can't stand that he wont see Harry getting his Hogwarts letter- or his first real broom, or his first wand. He won't ever read the letter Minerva would surely write to him about Harry being just as mischievous as he was.

He almost cries when he thinks of how he didn't remember to tell Lily he loves her- because he does, so so much. He loves her more than anything that has ever existed. He hopes that when she lives, she'll at least remember how he loved her- he doesn't even let himself think for a second that she could die too because he would going to break down right then and there.

She deserved so much more than she got. She deserved someone who was almost as smart as her, almost as caring as she was. He's aching because she only got him- he who had doomed her to this- dying at 21, without him by her side.

She deserved someone who had less than 20 detentions, someone who could take care of her- someone who would surely remember their fucking wand before facing bloody Voldemort.

Anyone would've been a better suitor for her than he was. He thinks how Amos Diggory would've bought her anything she wanted, how Remus would've made sure she remembered how she was kinder than the purest Hufflepuff, how Sirus would've kept her laughing, even during war, how Peter would've reminded her how she was beautiful, how Benjy Fenwick would test her wits with his own, losing to her every time, how Frank Longbottom would have kept her grounded. How all of them would have kept her alive until she was 83, and too old to flip the pages of the muggle Star Wars comics that he knew she read in secret.

But she had, in fact ended up with him, the man who had kept her happy until his untimely death- actually, murder.

And suddenly, he's satisfied with himself for the briefest of milliseconds before all he sees is a flash of green, and a never ending white light.